


Death's Sting

by ampersand_ch



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Desire, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 03:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6313885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr John H. Watson leaves Sherlock Holmes out of fear of being labeled a sodomist and losing his standing in society. His marriage to Mary is a disaster. The ensuing situation causes both him and Holmes to fall apart. When they run into each other at a dinner affair, a possible solution arises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dinner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).
  * A translation of [Des Todes Stachel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305396) by [ampersand_ch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch). 



> My thanks to SwissMiss, who translated this story into English, making it available for lots of readers.  
> It is the sadest story I wrote to date.  
> Thank you, SwissMiss, for the incredible work you do for us!

People bore me. They are always so fixated on their own absurd existence. They know nothing; see nothing. And even when they do see, they do not understand what they have seen. They are incapable of analysis. Their thought processes are simplistic and predictable, and they act accordingly. It is quite incredible, actually, that such a banal principle has succeeded through the course of evolution.

I do not like _people_. I only liked one. An exception. But he has left.

I have not accepted any cases for quite some time. Lestrade has made several attempts to consult me, but I have refused. No interest. Well, there might be one or two murders of particular interest, and a few cases approaching a complexity with which one might have tempted me earlier. Watson would likely have succeeded in motivating me. He with his philanthropic bent and sense of justness. He always knew how to shed light on matters and make them palatable to me. But Watson is gone. He has his Mary now. 

Dr John Watson was my claqueur. He admired me. He idolised my sharp mind. He was taken with my ability to observe and see connections. I was able to astound him. He loved me for it. He rejoiced when we succeeded in apprehending a thief or murderer. I took pleasure in his joy, and in being the object thereof. Well, perhaps there was much that I did for his sake. For our sake. For both of us. It gratified his desire for justice and my thirst for approbation. And so we joined forces to solve crimes. Not that I ever concerned myself with justice. That was Watson's motive, and his alone. I abhor people, and far be it from me to do anything for their sake, unless it might contribute to my own entertainment and satisfaction.

My life has become cold and empty. I have no more ambition since he left. Yes. I admit it. Things are hollow without him. Life. Even more hollow. Even more trivial. A skeleton counting down the hours, its bones picked clean, the seconds chasing through it in stormy gusts. Minutes. Hours. Days. Meaningless. Day-to-day existence nothing more than tedium and disinclination. One day identical to the next. Worthless. One night identical to the next. Senseless. Disposable goods.

And then these unspeakable dinners from time to time. The O'Gradys had extended an invitation to their country estate. I only attend such events because they allow me to dine for free. In exchange, I put on a smile and make small talk with ghastly, inane guests who bore me to tears. My presence is requested because I am Sherlock Holmes, a certified genius. People want to stare at me like an animal in the zoological gardens. _The great Sherlock Holmes! An odd fellow, unapproachable, foul-tempered, but quite brilliant._ I used to receive invitations for myself and Dr Watson. We were the odd couple, back then. Watson distributed his charm amongst the ladies, breaking many a heart. It was a game. We would enjoy a pleasant evening, eat well, and enjoy excellent conversation. Since he left, I attend these affairs alone and sulk. That is the state of things. I cannot deal with people without him. I feel myself at their mercy. I am insufferable. I won't try to sugarcoat it. It's the truth. I am unbearable without him.

That is the part of the iceberg which is visible.

It lies within me, cold and sharply angled. Every move causes its keen, icy edges scrape against the open wounds of my soul. The iceberg reaches down deep into my groin, where the main body can be found. It sometimes cracks open, splinters into daggers that thrust into my body when the mountain turns, pushing new masses of ice downward and digging the shards deeper into my flesh. Sometimes I find I can barely breathe.

Sometimes I no longer wish to breathe.

The only reason to breathe would be for him. His skin. The familiar scent of tobacco and lye soap, the tang of his sweat and the sweet bitterness of his arousal. The combination, its components constantly changing when we made love. But his mere presence would suffice for me, the smell of him beside me, his body, the joy of his attention, his smile. That alone would be worth breathing for.

The whole of the flat used to smell of him. Everything, even the curtains. Now nothing smells of his briskness, his laughter, his gaze. The flat on Baker Street is sinking in the fug and stench of dust and ashes. The musty putrescence of pointless loneliness seeps out of the wallpaper, and the walls exhale the mildewy humidity of unfulfilled longing. Stagnant grief cowers in the nooks and corners and rises from the carpet as soon as one sets foot upon it. The rotting corpse of a lost love. Everywhere.

Sometimes... sometimes I fancy he is returning home of an evening. His footsteps on the stairs. He hangs his hat and coat on the hooks behind the door, cheerful, unhurried. He enters the living room, approaching me and placing his hands on my shoulders from behind as I continue to peer down my microscope. Then he says, his voice affectionate and sweet, "Good evening, Holmes," and presses his face into my hair for a long moment. His breath warm. And I close my eyes and lean back against his body, lay my hand over his. Sometimes the dream continues for hours. Then I retire to my bed and apply my own hand to myself, seeking release, an escape from the pain for a short time, a self-deceit. Afterwards, I feel filthy and alone. I find myself more lonely than ever, and sometimes... sometimes I weep. Weep like a godforsaken, injured child. As if the emptiness could be filled with tears.

I would not have accepted the invitation to dinner at the O'Gradys – never – had I known what awaited me there. I had been seated between a professor of mathematics and a young, well-educated lady, apparently in hopes that I would be able to amuse myself. That I would either be drawn into the complex thought processes of higher mathematics, or fall victim to the lady's charm and wit. I ate what was offered, listened to the conversation around the table with half an ear, and replied sullenly to any questions directed my way. I know I performed an injustice to my neighbours at table, the highly intelligent and kindly professor as well as the extraordinarily savvy and quick-witted young lady. They could not help it that they were not Watson, that they were unable to fill the painful void; indeed, they only served to make me feel it more keenly.

It was winter, and accordingly dark, and the O'Gradys had only caused a small number of candles to be lit in the banquet hall, in order to provide a festive atmosphere. I had turned to the mathematician. Perhaps that is the reason why I did not see him until the meal was underway. He sat on the opposite side of the long table, only a couple of metres away from me. He looked tired and drawn. Pale. His hair unkempt and dull. His eyes were reddened and the smile he made an effort to bestow on the lady beside him came across pained. He looked ill and maltreated. It was Dr John Watson. He seemed to have aged several years. Mary had not accompanied him.

I must have been staring at him, and he must have sensed it. He turned his head and our eyes met. I saw his eyes widen. He was startled, just as much as I, clearly having as little expected to see me here as I him. We watched each other through all the people, dishes and glasses, through coiffures and hats, all the chatter, blather, and laughter. We stared at each other like two strange wolves who have caught each other's scent.

He turned away first, made his excuses to the lady beside him, stood up, and left the table and the room. I sat there like a dog that had been left out in the rain. I stared at the table, into my plate, but my hand refused to lift the fork. My body refused to swallow. My head refused to formulate a single thought. John. John was here. I closed my eyes and made an attempt to master the tumult in my heart. Something stung like acid, burning me from the inside. I forced myself to remain seated, but failed. I could not pretend nothing had happened. And he had left as soon as he'd seen me. He had left, just as he had the last time. Without saying a word, leaving nothing behind but this searing pain. I needed to go to him.

Oh yes, I was well aware how wrong that was. I stood up and went looking for him. I was a fool. A hopeless fool. I wanted to see him, to smell him. I wanted to hear his voice, to look into his eyes. I was gasping for his attention, to have it turned on me for a moment at least. A meeting. A few words. He was the man who had vanquished everything in me, conquered all, consumed me entirely. My thoughts were with him day and night, even now. I wanted to see him. Even if it might be painful to stand before him, it could not surpass the cruelty of the torment I suffered without him.

And so I went after him. Mindless. Driven like an animal by agitation and instinct.


	2. The Farewell

I went in search of Watson. He had put on his coat and gone out to the grounds surrounding the O'Grady manor. I slipped into my coat and followed the trail he had left in the freshly fallen snow. I didn't know whether he expected me to follow him, whether he had left his footprints with intent or whether he had fled head over heels into the park. 

I found him in an open, circular pavillion amidst some old trees. He was leaning on one of the columns around the pavillion's circumference, a dark, slender shadow smoking a cigarette. I stopped where I was, hesitant. His silhouette stood out in relief. He was leaning heavily against the column as if he had no strength of his own to stand.

"John?"

He blew out a puff of smoke and spoke without really sounding surprised: "I thought you'd come after me. What do you want?"

I walked up the three marble steps to the rotunda and stopped. I could see him in the pale moonlight which illuminated the snow around us: his face, his profile. The cloud of his breath wafted a whiff of his scent over to me.

"I want to see your eyes," I said.

"Then do so," replied he.

I went to him, close to him, stood directly before him and looked into his eyes. Into his beautiful, beloved eyes. I looked into them and saw the flickering therein. The doubts. The memories. And I knew then that John was still mine. Wholly and completely. We were so close; so incredibly close. Everything was still there in that moment. The intimacy. The passion. And the sadness.

I said, "I cannot live without you."

Watson let his head fall back against the column and closed his eyes. He did not speak for a long time, simply stood there leaning against the column with his eyes closed. Finally, he took a deep breath and straightened, but he did not look at me as he spoke.

"I cannot either."

Watson lifted his hand to examine his cigarette, took one final drag and tossed it out into the night with a gesture that was both nervous and violent. A combination of reluctance and desperation.

"Come back to me, John."

"I'm married to Mary."

"You look unhappy."

"I am."

"John..."

"No. No, Holmes. Stop it right now! You know as well as I how impossible it is."

He looked at me with grief in his eyes. I wanted to put my arms around him but I knew that he would reject me.

"We cannot pay the price it costs, Sherlock. You know that too."

He turned away, looking out at the moonlit expanse of snow, at the black skeletons of the trees. I knew of what he spoke. The repressions of society. The constant fear of being reported. Patients turning away from him in disgust. The gossip, the suggestive remarks in the Times. Dr John Watson could not afford to be convicted of sodomy. Nor could I. We had already leant too far out the window, were no longer anonymous members of society. We would drag each other down into misfortune. We had spoken of it long enough, argued long and hard before Watson had left me and created an acceptable alibi for himself with Mary.

John patted down the pockets of his coat, searching for another cigarette, which he then inserted between his lips with shaky fingers and struck a match. It was promptly extinguished by the light night breeze that blew through the park. I raised my hands and cupped them around his to create a space that was sheltered from the wind so he could strike a second match. He allowed me. His hands were warm and trembling. His gaze brushed mine. There was so much affection between us in that brief moment when our hands touched. John lit the cigarette and let his hands slowly fall away from mine. I sensed the effort it cost him. He hesitated. He also hesitated. What was between us was not over yet. And we were playing with fire.

"We cannot see each other again, Holmes," he said.

"I know."

"Then leave."

I stayed where I was. I could not leave.

"Go!" he repeated.

"I cannot."

It was barely more than a whisper. My voice failed. I reached out my hand, but he batted it away.

"Stop it!" he hissed.

I looked into his eyes and knew that I could reach out again, more forcefully, break his resistance, which would now be greatly diminished. His passion would awake. As would mine. Immediate. Fierce. Uncontrollable. We would make love out here in the O'Gradys' snow-covered park, unrestrained, unable to master our own selves. We knew each other long enough and well enough. We were playing with fire in a quite irresponsible manner.

"When does Mary expect you tonight?" I asked.

"That's none of your concern."

"My door is open, you know," I said and left.

My entire body was shaking. I walked briskly and with determination in my step, in order not to fall victim to the weakness in my soul and in my flesh. I did not go back to the O'Gradys' house. Rather, I got into one of the hackney cabs loitering in front of the manor and instructed the driver to bring me to Baker Street. It was as if my senses had taken leave of me. I staggered up the stairs to my empty, cheerless flat and collapsed in my chair before the cold hearth. I was still trembling like a leaf, both from the cold and from my own frailty. What had I done! I was mad. A fool. What if Watson actually came here? Would it all start over again? All the torment, the distress, the all-night crying jags, morphine hazes lasting for days on end, the flat locked down tight, screaming, howling, raving, Mrs Hudson helpless, Mycroft raging outside the bolted door.

I sat there shaking in front of the fireplace in the dark, fearing and hoping in equal measure that Watson would come. I was afraid he would be so deluded and forlorn as I and come here. I hoped he would be so stupid and blind as I and truly do it. And I suspected that I would not have the strength to survive either course of action. I sat there numb and fearful, chiding myself a thousand times over for being so sick; a madman.

Then I heard footsteps. I could scarcely believe my ears; I fairly swooned. HIS footsteps. He ascended the stairs – slowly – opened the door and then stopped short. I was frozen and did not move. He moved through the living room to the fireplace and said curtly, "You might at least have lit the fire."

He took off hat and gloves, opened his coat and started to break up some kindling and lay fresh wood on top of the old ashes. He wadded up some paper which he tore out of the Times and lit the fire. He waited until the flames lashed greedily at the wood before standing up and looking at me. His face was a pale mask. His eyes flickered in the unsteady light of the fire.

"We cannot see each other any more," he said in a low voice. "Look where it leads us. You invite me and I come. It is utterly without reason."

Our eyes met. John had come. He stood before me, here in our flat. So familiar. So close. His scent, his warmth. The crackling of the fire. I carefully extended my hand to him. I did not touch him. I did not want that. I didn't want it all to begin anew. I wanted him to leave. For everything to come to an end. And I wanted him. Completely. I wanted him to stay. Forever. His fingers found mine. A fraction of a second later, we were in each other's arms. I felt the heat washing over us both, and I knew we were lost. Hopelessly. He burrowed into me, and I into him: breathless, moaning, panting.

His kiss was hot and intimate, and I surrendered to it. Greedy for his skin. For him. For his soul. For everything he was. For John Watson. And then we hesitated after all. In a turmoil, wrapped around each other, our hands already on the other's bare skin. We hesitated and looked at each other. We were aroused, breathing each other in, deep and desperate. But we pulled apart and looked into each other's eyes.

Then Watson said, "I cannot live like this, Sherlock. I am torn apart without you. And I am torn apart with you."

His eyes were so beautiful and full of pain that it took my breath away. I rested my hand against his temple.

"Love me," I pleaded.

His gaze searched mine. He placed his hand over mine.

"Yes," he whispered.

We prepared our nest on the skin before the fireplace in solemn stillness. A familiar place where we had often made love. We lay down together and caressed each other with tender care. We knew each other so well: our bodies, our reactions. We were each other's home in every sense, including this one. We led and guided each other with great attention. We made love slowly, and in sadness. I suspected it was a farewell. We were profoundly connected when I tenderly stroked his moist prickhead with my thumb and his seed spurted into my hand as I spent myself inside him almost simultaneously with a long, strong contraction. We were very close together. Utterly wrapped up in each other. We melded everything in that moment. Ourselves. Our lives.

We added wood to the fire and pulled the blankets around us, and I watched over Watson as he slept in my arms, illuminated by the flickering of the flames.

When I awoke in the morning, the fire had gone out. The flat was cold. And Watson was gone.


	3. The Decision

I remember well the day on which I saw him for the first time. He was looking for a flat. I had one and was willing to share it in exchange for financial compensation. He was returned from the war, had been injured and was seeking a path back to a normal life. His name was John H. Watson and he was a doctor. An army doctor. He came from the front and suffered nightmares. He entered my life like an emaciated, tormented dog that, when tossed a bone, wags its tail and worships its benefactor. That is how I saw him at the beginning. He took the room upstairs and was willing to pay twelve shillings a month for the honour.

When he arrived, he had nothing. He showed up with a bag in which all of his paltry possessions easily fit. A few items of clothing, an army pistol, a sable, a dagger, a few mementos from his time in Afghanistan. Mrs Hudson was pleased that he took over all of the existing furnishings, and was grateful for linens and bedding. Indeed, he was a friendly and straightforward fellow. When Mike Stamford introduced us, I thought to myself: he is harmless and simple. But he had beautiful eyes, and they fascinated me. 

That was the first devastating conclusion. It was devastating because I hungered for those eyes from the first moment onward. They were full of life and emotion. They were full of those things I did not have. I did not understand until later that I was the one who triggered all of that in him. John had a way of laughing, of thinking, of attending to me that thoroughly and utterly won me over. He changed my life completely. He taught me to feel. He introduced my soul to flight, my mind to stillness. He taught my body to surrender itself and lit a fire in my heart. Dr John Hamish Watson was anything but harmless. He made me into a man who loved, but who was also lost. He gave me a heaven whose underside was hell.

My brother was the first one to draw the correct conclusions. There was a picture in the Times. We had been photographed at a crime scene. We were just leaving, Watson and I. We stood beside each other. We did not look at each other, but it was clear that we were inclined toward each other, and our shoulders were touching. We looked into the camera with a profound satisfaction and happiness in our eyes that cannot be pretended at. Watson and I looked like a newlywed couple. I was shocked at the picture when I saw it. Most people might not have noticed. But others understood quite well what it depicted.

My brother said to me, "Watch out with that Watson fellow, do you hear?"

I said to him – and I recall quite clearly that I felt myself glowing with happiness – "He is my friend."

"Love is a chemical defect, Sherlock. And between two men, a crime."

"He is my friend," I repeated.

He still was, at that moment. My friend. Just barely. A few hours later, we were lovers and criminals. We retired to the house on Baker Street following the case. We were reflective. We both knew that the tenderness and the touches that already existed between us went beyond the pale of friendship. We both felt the desire that lay hidden behind it and that struggled to surface ever more emphatically. 

We spoke of it that evening. John Watson was the one who found the courage to bring up the topic and to kiss me, to break the enchantment. We made love for the first time that night. Taken by sin and passion. I was overwhelmed by the experience and could hardly believe my luck. It took me some time to learn what it meant to give oneself to another person, completely, for one's entire being to be mingled with his. The indissoluble dependence that goes along with it.

We lived on the strength of our love. I was blissfully happy. Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. John had taken over a small practise. We solved complicated cases. It was the best time of my life.

But our happiness was noticed. First by the envious, then by those who disliked our work. And finally by the public, who provided fertile soil for the rumours. Eventually, John left. I know he did it for my sake. For both of us. To save us. To save me.

But there is nothing that can save me anymore.

He has left me a second time. But this time is different. He has left me for good.

I do not know whether I knew it before, whether I suspected it or was even waiting for it. Three days after our last night together, the telegram arrived with the news that the body of Dr John H. Watson had been found. He had shot himself in the wintry forest with his army revolver. I fell into a state of shock when I realised he was gone. Gone forever. That it would never again be possible to gaze into those beautiful, familiar eyes; to embrace him.

Something in me cracked, shunting me into a place beyond there here and now. I sat down in my chair in front of the fireplace, empty and disengaged from time. I simply sat there. There was no pain in me. Only a clean-swept nothingness. But something inside me was broken, quiet and deep. I took note of it eventually. A distortion. It was not the blind, furious torment, the screaming, raving and sobbing; it was not a battle like before, the first time he left. It was a singular, jarring disjunction that displaced my foundation. 

Tears began to seep from that crack after a time, as if from a spring that has been uncovered, and with them the desperate hopelessness and awful, painful bitterness that had been my companions for so long, began to dissolve. Everything burst forth out of me. A poisonous, black brew that stank of rot. I wept it all out, vomited it up, hacked and coughed it out of my body, out of my soul. I let everything go. Let everything flow out. There was nothing left that would have been worth keeping. I did not fight it. I simply gave up. Many hours passed before my body was utterly exhausted. Mrs Hudson and Mycroft cared for me. I scarcely noticed their presence. A black hole, devoid of meaning. The only thing that existed was that crack inside me. I suspected what it meant. My life was broken.

There was no farewell letter. He left nothing behind. Not a single word. It was not necessary. I know all of his words. His thoughts. The warmth of his smile. The touch of his hands. The heat of his body. I know everything about him. I know all of him.

I slowly began to understand: he had freed me. He had freed us. Our love. His death lifted it up above this hostile world, creating a space for it in memories that can no longer be violated. He secured all of that: what we were, what we had shared. He made our love into an unbreakable band in a sphere in which no society, no rumour, no power in the world could destroy it. Our love had become untouchable.

I went to his funeral. I wanted to, wanted to accompany him to the place we would meet again one day. I would do it for him as a sign of my unbroken love. Mycroft fretted over me. Perhaps he thought I had found John anew. John was closer to me than ever. I was as close to him as if our bodies were joined, but there was no more flesh to separate us. I gazed continually into his beautiful, loving eyes and constantly felt his embrace.

At his burial, I wept openly at his grave. Mycroft held me. I wept for our unfulfilled life. For his. And for mine. I wept for those people who were close to us: Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. I wept for the farewell. I did not weep for our love. It was indestructible.

I spoke to Mary and grieved for her. She was the victim of my impotence. 

She was calm when she said to me, "It was his love for you that killed him."

And I said to her, "We still love each other."

She stared at me in horror and said, "Do not commit a sin, Sherlock Holmes."

A sin? His body lay broken in the coffin, committed to decay. A suicide. Without any right to the sacraments of the church. But that did not matter. A love existed with which he had sanctified me, and I would sanctify him with the same. Completely and unconditionally.

We returned John's body to the earth. I had committed him to memory. Every inch. His overpowering beauty and strength. I felt him every moment. I laid flowers in with him, a witness of my esteem. I was aware of death then, with that gesture. The man I had shared my life with, to whom I had revealed my soul and given my body, did not exist any more. That singular person was no more, who had been the object of the unquenchable longing of my heart, day and night; for whom I had ached. He had freed himself. And myself with him. There was a path to him now.

John Watson stopped the world for the two of us. He stepped off of it and left the door open for me. He always was the braver one between us. The world has been interrupted. Time stands still. The earth stands still. Reality has crumbled into nothingness, devoid of content.

_O death, where is thy sting?_

I always have enough morphine on hand.


End file.
